© Makayla Lagerman, MS1
I had no reason to own black
Until 22.
No reason for knowing the smell of
formaldehyde,
Leftover casseroles reheated,
the Catholic Church on the corner of Coal Street.
No reason to worry with each surprise ring from a parent–
“Just checking in,”
Or not–
Who insists I call when I’m free
Because I’m the busy one,
The one busy living.
But at 22,
I snip the tags off a black dress collecting dust in the back corner of a closet.
At 22, I learn death
When it taps on our shoulders and I am gullible enough to turn around.
I look back and find he’s gone.
In that moment, I learn death–
Death, but not dying.
Widow maker, but not the making of a widow.
That part comes next.
It is slower, more surprising.
Maybe harder.
At 23, I give Meme a call.
She does not cry this time.
We learn dying and we unlearn it
Minute by minute.
So I meet this sunlight today, shake its hand.
We take them together. Golden.